It snowed yesterday, temperatures wavering just below freezing. The snow fell on a thin crust of frozen ground, below which oozed a molten muck of the kind only a week of thawing sleet and ice can create; the kind of mud ordinary shoes are hopeless against, the kind of mud you take one sliding step in and think, ‘this is serious, I need to back it up.’
But early in the morning before the sun has had a chance to do its thing, there is enough of that temporary crust to walk around and survey the garden.
As usual, the cat walked one-half step in front so as not to miss an opportunity for some pant leg action. One would think the first time she got accidentally trod upon would have been the last, but she has a short memory, a masochistic streak, or a courageous, forgiving nature. Whatever her reasons, I spend a lot of my time in the garden stepping in what looks like a jerky, off-kilter, Christopher Walken-style dance. I very seldom actually trip on the cat, but I often appear ridiculous.
There wasn’t much to see, but I saw the French sorrel has still got its game face on:
And it was kind of muffled, but I think the daffodils were asking if they could move to Florida.
I’m glad I took the pictures early because it’s now in the 40’s and the snow is already gone. It was pretty while it lasted, but like the daffodils, I do much better without a coating of ice and am glad it’s gone. Bring on spring.